Languid
by fucking-sherlock
Summary: "Is this your first time?" He whispered, careful, calculated, caring. "No." He rasped at last, baritone voice dripping with lust. "Are you sure you want to do this?" John's voice was too warm. Liquid ambrosia to his ears. "Yes. God yes-"


A mouth, a gasp. Ivory skin, body long and vast. A pair of feet, curled toes. Angular features, circular nose.

Overwhelmed by floods of emotions, wet tongues licking. Warm breath: intermingling. Steady hands: hovering. One moment perfect, the next; unsure.

"Is this your first time?" He whispered, careful, calculated, caring.  
"No." He rasped at last, baritone voice dripping with lust.  
"Are you sure you want to do this?" John's voice was too warm. Liquid ambrosia to his ears.  
"Yes. God yes-" And teeth clashed again, lips crushing with nearly heart-wrenching care. John's hands returned, confident and sure, ruffling his hair. His delighted little chuckle caused Sherlock to feel as though his chest was being ripped open, in the most perfect way.

There was no pain, no anger, no punishments. This was John: beautiful, caring, John.  
Was this how making love felt?  
This was nothing like the other times with other men in darker times.

"John." A continuous murmur, a chant and prayer to the Gods he didn't believe in; asking why on Earth did he deserve this man before him.

"Shh, love. I've got you." The golden haired healer with his healing hands on his own angular, too pale, too thin, too naked, too flawed body.  
Suddenly, the lanky man did not take pride in his visible ribs, his nonexistent belly, his shoulder's span, his chest's width, his lack of bulky muscles, his longer but thinner cock than the others' because he did not find himself anything like John described him.

He was not brilliant or beautiful, amazing or extraordinary. He was a simple man with a mind.  
He did not think himself beautiful because the world told him that he was not, merely for his (ridiculously) perfect cupid bow decorated mouth that refused to contain it's brilliance hidden behind sunken eyes painted with dark circles. The amazing clockworks behind his pale blue-grey eyes that scared and intimidated others. The extraordinary methods to his comprehension and his beautiful, beautiful beauty contained both inside and out of the man that he did not recognize as himself, but as mere transport.

Merely because the world told him that he was not.  
But the world told him he was beautiful as well.  
The world told him he was brilliant and eccentric and ingenious to no extent because his world was John and John was the only thing that mattered and John was here and John was touching him and holding him and kissing his fears and sorrows and past away. Away and away.

He gasped out of his ridiculously perfect cupid bow mouth because he could. He whispered "I know you love me. I know. I know." to the other because he could. He flung his head back with the other man's name on the tip of his tongue because he could, because he wanted to, because he was beautiful and perfect and flawed and brilliant and everything else the world told him he wasn't and what he was because John made him who he was.

"I do. I do. I do love you." John would kiss upon his flesh over and over.

And John would heal his aching heart and chest and Sherlock would never stop talking because he wanted John to know that he could feel things too. John loved his voice, he knew John did. He knows what John likes and how John feels. He knows everything about John and John doesn't yell at him like the others did, but he feels loved and honored that Sherlock would memorize him rather than the universe.

After his aching bones healed, John would lean down and kiss him. Their eyes would stay open just to catalogue each other's reactions and John would slide into Sherlock with ease Sherlock envied. Sherlock would want to slide into John's chest with ease as elegant as John himself, and stay there until he was sated. So John cradled him with painfully soft hands, stroked Sherlock's aching cock languidly as John thrust into his lanky, soft, warm, alive body.

The salty blur in his vision could not be avoided. It was anticipated after a lifetime of both physical and mental isolation. However this time, once the tears came, they did not stop. No matter how strongly he willed them to obey. This time, he did not feel ashamed as he sobbed into the other's mouth as he came with John burying himself deep in Sherlock's body painlessly.

This time, instead of chanting "I know you love me, I know you love me." after they made love, he breathed soft '**I love you**'s' against John's flawed lips and thought,

**He is not like the others.**

And he loved him for that.

**Fin.**


End file.
